Vivid Pictures
by Ready Or Notxx
Summary: It's been three years. Adam got out alive. Lawrence didn't. So what can he do without the man he loves? Can he just let himself rot, or can he seek comfort from someone... similar? Adam/Evan. NEW PAIRING ALERT. Oneshot.


Well, this is a very new pairing, and I'm proud to say I support it. :D Me and my buddies at school roleplay, so we decided to add Evan into the bunch, a character of which playing is bestowed upon moi. (Along with Adam, Jigsaw, Mallick, and etc. depending on our moods.) So… We decided we love this pairing. ChainShipping is still my favorite, but this rocks. :D I don't think it has a name, so I call it AngerShipping.

Sorry about the whole Lawrence thing… It hurts me, too…

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**Vivid Pictures**

I've been going for what seems like… forever now.

The days go by.

I never change.

I don't heal.

I wonder how that Amanda Young chick or that Bobby Dagen was able to live a better life after their… "Games." For me, it doesn't seem to work that way. The cogs don't seem to mesh.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it had just been me in that bathroom. If _I _were left there by myself to complete the game. Jeez, I couldn't have done it without… Lawrence, though.

He pulled me through it, _him, _the only reason I didn't just break down crying and give up right there. The only reason I didn't slit my throat with the shard of glass I'd decided was a two-way mirror. He protected me and made me think logically, instead of sitting there like a complete dumbass and searching myself for proof of kidney-loss during our eight hours together.

Lawrence was a good man. Of course he had faults, like the whole cheating on his wife thing. He was smart and most of the time polite. He actually made me _feel _when he was yelling at me about his family needing him. Like this was somehow all my fault.

Maybe it _was._

When he told me his family needed him, I almost said it, almost told him with a small quivering voice and watery eyes. Almost told him that I needed him too, needed him to stay calm so we could both think our way out of here alive.

Would he have listened to me with all the panic that was rising up inside of him?

Would he have calmed down, took deep breaths, breathed out, "Y-yeah, you're right."?

Maybe he would've.

I don't know.

I'll never know.

It'll just be tiny shards of glass stuck in my heart, feelings that hurt and burn and sear with a severe longing, but then again, they're too fucking painful for me to remove. Too damn _real, _and now I'll never know if Lawrence felt the same.

"_Lawrence," I felt myself whisper, agony radiating in my shoulder. Voices had filled the hallway; reporters, detectives, and doctors all crowded around us, but the spotlight wasn't on them._

_This was our damn Disney moment. Our moment to have whatever stupid pop music we wished set the mood, the moment where the stupid laughing track goes, "Awwwww…" even though they're required to do that anyways. _

_I didn't really catch much of what was going on—I was suffering quite a bit of blood loss from the bullet wound, so my head never once stayed in one place. First, Lawrence's mouth. Then Lawrence's eyes. Then the floor. "Lawrence," I murmured again, just mere centimeters from his face._

_So pale. So perfect and white and beautiful at the same time._

_I'd never seen anyone like him, especially not before now. No one that glowed the same way, no one whose eyes sparkled with such happiness that it made even me smile, too. He grinned back, his lips almost completely colorless, almost losing their Lawrence-touch._

"_Adam," he mumbled back, his grip on my reddened shirt tightening. _

_His eyes began to close._

_So I knew it was over._

_It rolled off his tongue. _

_His last breath._

"_Adam…"_

_They were closed._

_Nothing more. There was nothing more I could do but whimper and cry into his chest, imagine he was still pressed against me when the paramedics pulled us apart and put us on separate gurneys._

_Then there was nothingness._

_A blur._

_This whole time has just been one big blur._

I pick up jobs regularly, but I can never keep them. Usually I can't be bothered to even get up in the mornings or shower fucking properly, but I don't care. I'm just going to rot soon in the ground with Larry, and it's not like clothes or stupid chin stubble even really matter when you're dead.

Well, maybe it does.

Or maybe nothing matters. Maybe you just float in a fucking abyss for the rest of eternity.

I wish.

What I've been doing since being in the bathroom trap was going to Jigsaw Survivors' Group meetings, fooling around with inspirational people who have survived this kind of thing, people who have been able to move on and marry and have a successful life, even though they've killed a friend or cut off their own arm. How's that for motivational?

I suck.

I'm not motivational.

I'm the one bird that gets its ass kicked out of the nest, the baby bird that doesn't fall to his death, but doesn't ever learn how to fly either because of its damned broken wing.

Some of the survivors have worse stories to tell than I do.

They cry and quiver and shake and mutter so I actually have to lean forward in my chair in order to hear them. They tell stories of killing their boyfriend just to set themselves free or stories of having to shoot their best friend in order to stay alive.

Yes, some of them are worse stories.

Do I tell mine?

Mine was all over the news, apparently. Everyone knows about it, the story of successful and rich Dr. Gordon bleeding to death after a serial killer tortured him and young Adam Faulkner, a photographer. I don't _need _to share mine. Share secrets that I'll take to the grave, secrets that no one will ever see.

They're my memories. They don't need to be corrupted by any bastard's "inspiration."

Other survivors who come to these meetings are angry and bitter and cross, just like me. They either refuse to tell their story or they spit it in everyone's face, going, "Yeah, I'm a fucking Jigsaw victim. He was crazy. So?"

They say that Jigsaw doesn't really change you. That the whole Amanda thing was just a fluke, because she turned into a fucking crazy bitch anyways.

I think they're right.

I smoked before the bathroom, had a shithole apartment, walked around taking pictures of people I don't even know.

Jigsaw changes people?

Yeah, what_ever._

I sit down in my usual seat today like I usually do, crossing my legs and taking a long and grateful drag on my cigarette.

I'm not grateful for my life. But I am grateful for the death sticks, I suppose.

All the regular survivors who haven't decided to do something useful with their lives are here before me, and they exchange glances with me. A pretty, older woman with long, black hair smiles at me and waves slightly, but I pretend not to notice.

I've seen Brit here before. Known she was uplifting compared to the rest of us.

I don't want to deal with such petty bullshit.

The legs of a chair suddenly squeak next to me, so I involuntarily glance over at the new dude.

Yes, he's new, never been here before, so he must be a fresh victim, one that's a scab all infected with puss, a scab that needs to be washed desperately.

I think I need to be washed desperately.

But I keep dirty. What happened to me is not just something you can forget.

While I know he hasn't noticed me staring at him through my fingers yet, I take notes about his appearance.

This man is tall. Not like Lawrence tall, but he's not a short little bastard like me.

He's not tan, but he's not exactly pale, either. His arms are imprinted with various tattoos, and probably so is the rest of his not-super-muscular but not-super-skinny body. His hair is the color of black coffee, a dark brown that's actually a little lighter than my hair color. His eyes are _dark, _maybe even black.

His ears are pierced. Black gauges. I remember vaguely wanting some when I was like twenty, but decided against it when I saw this one dude in the mall had them the size of a coaster. The guy's wearing a white T-shirt with a black-and-white, striped, long-sleeved T-shirt underneath it. Blue jeans and black boots tie the outfit together, making him look… Like a goth grown man.

I blink.

The guy's maybe like a year or two older than me. His hands are shaking, and as he sits down, he doesn't let his back touch the chair.

Jittery.

That word crosses my mind.

"Good afternoon, everyone."

Bobby Dagen's voice.

Time to zone out, pretend like this sort of therapy my doctors recommend actually helps me and does something to my life. The older man talks, and I'm too busy taking a drag on my cigarette to listen.

Maybe I continue looking at the nervous-as-bloody-hell new guy.

So he's pretty good looking, I'd say, even though he just look like someone cut him off on the freeway. His teeth grind into his lower lip, and maybe his black eyes glance over to me.

Down.

I look down.

Embarrassed.

Great.

He thinks I'm a freak now.

Wait.

Why would I care? He's just like the rest of them. Here to get healed. Not to really learn anything new.

But within staring at the floor, through my peripheral vision I do in fact catch a glimpse of his nametag.

_HELLO! My name is Evan_

Oh.

Him.

Heard about him on the news.

Know his story.

Remember watching the news one morning and imagining someone getting their skin ever-so-slowly and agonizingly ripped from their back.

They said on the news at first that there were no live ones from this guy's trap, but they found him breathing and half-dead in the back of a car short after saying that phrase.

Damn, is this man lucky as hell.

He was supposed to die. But he lived, he held on and clung to life desperately when everyone else had died.

Damn it.

I dare to take a glance at him again, and this time, his eyes meet mine.

We exchange a look, don't say anything.

Now, I'm hoping that he doesn't think I'm checking him out.

He's hoping, _Okay, maybe I can scoot a little to the left without him knowing._

Evan's jittery fingers fumble on the armrest of the chair as we continue to stare at each other.

He's like me, wants this to be over so he can just go home and his doctors are happy that he's receiving some sort of therapy for this ordeal.

Breath hisses its merry way out of Evan's mouth. Not in an exasperated way, just in a bored way.

He's apathetic. Like me.

Wow. Small world.

"…Evan, why don't you tell us what brings you here?"

That finally gets me to pay attention to Bobby. The big moron's looking right at my "buddy," not pestering the hell out of me like he usually does.

The room is completely silent.

Eyes stab Evan like daggers.

Except mine.

I'm done looking at him.

The silence is like humidity. Sticks to me and makes me feel stuffy and uncomfortable.

I wish I wasn't almost done with this cigarette.

Stares.

Finally, a deep breath.

"How about I tell you _hell no. _Fuck yourself with your damned inspirational crap."

So I look up again.

Damn it.

I lose again.

Evan's turned red, a glare/sneer crossing his face. "You think talking about this kind of thing _helps _me? You think it changes lives? I was a screwed up racist before that stupid garage, and yeah, yeah, I learned my frickin' lesson. Sorry my girlfriend and my best friends had to die for me to get that I was fucked-up in the head."

Bobby's eyes widen.

Brit's eyes widen.

My eyes widen.

He's saying what I wish I could say.

How's that for motivational?

I suck.

I completely and utterly suck.

I've been going here for three years, thinking the same thing.

It took three years of what I wanted to say to never come out, and that fucking idiot said it on his first day here.

I fucking suck.

"Dude, I'm totally sorry I made a mistake," growls Evan, his hands balling up into fists. "I guess I'm not human. I guess I'm supposed to be some sort of fucking role-model or deity for the kids, right? Tell you what, Bobby. Stop wasting my time, and maybe you'll wake up and realize there's no moving forward from this. You're stuck in the middle of whatever shithole you got yourself in, and you'll have to deal with the regret and the pain and the sorrow for the rest of your miserable life. There is no moving on or moving forward." He turns away and starts walking towards the exit. "You have one life, one that you just have to deal with now that you fucked with it."

That's it.

He leaves.

I feel legs carry me to the exit as well.

I'm so weak…

As he leans against the brick exterior of the building outside, I know I'm weak.

He lost so much more.

But he learned so much more.

"What?" he hisses sharply when he sees me, crossing his arms. Damn, he _is_ pretty tall.

"Uhh…" My hand meets the back of my head. Scratches my head. "That was… Brave. What you said, I mean."

Evan snorts. Like he's trying to look like a badass and obviously failing fucking miserably. "Thanks, I feel _great._" Glances at my nametag. "Adam."

We don't speak. I just stare. He stares back.

Well. We're getting absolutely nowhere, here.

"You're that kid from the bathroom trap," he finally points out helpfully.

And damn, how I want to snap at him how I already know that shit, but I take the high road. Try to be polite. "Yeah," I reply, scratching again. The back of my head hurts, but I don't remove my hand.

"That was years ago. You're still coming here?"

"In hopes that doctors don't put me in a mental hospital because cigarettes cure my bad dreams."

Evan cracks a grin. "Really. I still can't ride a bus or a car. Afraid some ass spread glue on the seat when I wasn't looking."

I laugh, finally taking my hand away. I'm able to meet his eyes again. That's a start, at least. "I'm afraid that every time I open my closet some idiot in a mask is going to leap out," I counter, shrugging. "Stranger things have happened."

"So…"

Huh.

This time, he's the one who stares into the pavement.

"Are you okay about… the doctor?" he asks.

And it really does jam a knife, jam it into an old, tender flesh wound, causes swelling and bleeding all over again.

No one's supposed to bring up Lawrence. At least not around me.

So I'm relieved when Evan shakes his head and says quickly, "You know what? It's none of my business. My bad, man."

"I still love him every day," I blurt out. He nods. Actually listens, unlike the detectives who asked me about Lawrence and just scribbled onto a notepad. "I never told him, but I _did… _I thought I'd have more time to say it, but… I…"

Fuck.

My voice cracks.

I'm such a baby. God, I sound like a girl when I'm upset.

"I thought he was going to m-make it, man… Because he was the stronger one, and I was the weaker one who needed his guidance to get through that fucking shithole…"

I stop myself.

Evan stands, motionless, but his eyes are understanding, are black but pure. They get it. They're not a shell of inspirational. They're real, living eyes that have seen the truth. Real eyes that know what they're hearing, real eyes that have been through this before.

"Why am I telling you this?" I ask suddenly.

I know I expect an answer, but Evan doesn't respond at first. Actually, he seems to be thinking long and hard about that question. Because he does actually give a damn about what I have to tell him.

"Because you know I'll listen."

I have to look up at him again, nod, fidget with my own shirt collar while I try to find more words, but they just don't come to me. Not like they should.

"I understand, Adam," says Evan softly, his black gaze warm. "I mean… I'm still freaked out about the whole thing… I have nightmares just like you do… But… If you need help, I'm here. Okay?" He smiles.

That's it.

That's where the tears well up in my eyes.

I barely know this guy, but I do hug him. Hug him warmly with my arms wrapped around him, just like I did to Lawrence before his final moments.

Yes, it's weird.

Why am I doing it?

I need this. That's what I tell myself. And it's not a lie—I _do _need this.

I needed this more than I realized.

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D'awwwww! :D They don't really kiss or anything, but it's really just an introductory to a pairing I think is ADORABLE. Please review, especially if you support this pairing!


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